April was National Poetry Month.
In another life, in another state, I did write poetry. In this iteration of days, I have left a blank post in my drafts folder for 3 weeks waiting for inspiration.
Inspiration or time, because there is work eo dig through. Not laundry work. The work of writing, herding words into the corrals of blue lines above and blue lines below, right beside the gate of one long red line.
Fragments assert themselves between coconut milk and mail letter to Grandma in the notebook that is for tasks and not phrases.
I held this space here, a holding pen before shipping a small family of words to the market of my front page.
Stuck my finger in the book to mark my place until the numb wears off in tingles and jars me into this square of the calendar which begins a new month.
I haven’t disappointed you with all of this waiting and squaring off of my virtual ranch. Only me, in my knowing, that once I sat and did not fish for or finish a snippet. I did not fashion it into a poem. Did not type it out under the photograph that I took–my first response, but only by seconds, as the stanza came into the world the fraternal twin of light kissing silver halides.
Here, at last, is the morsel that took longer to introduce than to conceive.
dusk smudged pines
straight into the